The Legend of Our Lady of the Fields
- Emmitsburg, MD -
About the year 1642, as the story goes, Father Andrew White, S.J. and his
companions converted many Indians in Maryland. Among them was Ottawanta, a
Piscataway Chief and his family (his wife, 5 sons and one daughter).
But among the Indians as elsewhere, all did not receive the light of faith,
and the converted Indians were at times molested by those who remained
pagans - for all who wish to live piously in Christ Jesus must suffer
persecution.
To avoid the persecution and in pursuit of peace, Chief Ottawanta and his
family migrated to the north, finally staking their wigwam along a little
run which flows into the Monocacy River in what is now Frederick County,
near Emmitsburg, Maryland. Deprived of the ministrations of the
missionaries, the pious Indians turned to Our Lady through her Rosary.
During the ensuing years, God called one after the other of the Chief's
stalwart sons to Himself, and then too his wife and daughter. Sixty summers
had passed and Ottawanta was now all alone in his wigwam near the graves of
his dear ones. As they had died, he had buried them, one by one in a plot
near the Tom's Creek, a mile or so from the present township of Emmitsburg.
At each burial he had planted an oak to mark each grave, much as we would
mark them today with a tombstone. In his utter loneliness, the old chief
used to go each day to his little family burying ground and there on his
knees, he would recite the Rosary for his dear ones whom he longed to join.
And so it happened on the first of May, that the old Ottawanta knelt in the
oak grove with his beads in hand, praying the Blessed Mother of God to take
him to her side in Heaven with his dear ones. Evening came on, and the
setting sun saw the chief still bent in prayer, oblivious of the birds and
the silent forest about him. In answer to his repeated prayer, the Queen of
Heaven came down to earth and appeared to him with the Divine Child in her
arms. Her gentle voice, like the music of running waters, broke the silence
of his solitude.
"My Son, here I am. I have heard thy prayers. Soon thou wilt join thy
children. But this spot will ever bear testimony of thy love and fidelity
to me. The trackless forest and tangled thicket will be cleared by the hand
of the white man, the yellow harvest will wave over this now wild waste."
"As far as the eye can see, to yon rugged peaks, will the zealous Missioner
seek his scattered flocks and a temple to my name will crown the mountain's
brow whence innumerable bands of Levites and Mitered heads will depart to
convey the tidings of the Gospel. A holy Sisterhood will arise and souls
consecrated to the Lamb will repair hither and repeat ‘Aves' tht will be
answered by a thousand voices. The tribute of the harvest will be laid at
my feet, the first blossoms of spring will encircle my head and here I will
be honored as the Flower of the Field and the Lily of the Valley."
Jento
http://www.netmails.com/members/daje/
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